


That's How He Is

by taylor_tut



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Clint Barton & Tony Stark Friendship, Gen, Good Peter, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Clint Barton, Protective Peter Parker, Sick Character, Sick Tony Stark, Sickfic, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 01:04:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14557482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: Peter is worried when Tony doesn't let him in for his internship. Clint tells him that's just how Tony is: flakey. But when they find Tony down in the lab with a high fever and the only thing he's worried about is Peter seeing him sick, Clint thinks maybe he needs to reconsider some assumptions he's made about Tony Stark.





	That's How He Is

Peter rang the doorbell of Stark Tower again, looking into the camera above the door anxiously. While sometimes it took Tony a minute to come to the door, he usually at least said something through the speaker, but Peter had been ringing the bell and knocking consistently for the past five minutes with no reply, and it was beginning to make him a little nervous.

Finally, a rustling sound behind the door set him at ease--until it opened.

“Spider bro!” Clint Barton greeted. “Good to see you!”

“Hi, Mr. Barton,” Peter replied. 

“I told you, it’s Clint.”

Peter nodded. “Uh, is Mr. Stark here?”

“I think he’s down in the lab,” Clint said. “Definitely hasn’t been up since last night. Barely came up at all this weekend, if I’m thinking about it.” Clint eyed Peter suspiciously. “Why?”

“Oh, it’s just--I always help him out after school, and he didn’t send a message telling me not to come or anything, so I guess I’m just wondering if something changed.”

Clint gave a knowing, vaguely sympathetic smile and nod. “Oh, gotcha,” he said. “You know, you’re a smart kid, and you’ve known Tony for a while, I’m surprised you haven’t picked up on it yet.”

Peter hesitated. “On what?”

“This is how Tony is,” he replied. “He does whatever the most interesting thing is and ignores the rest, even if it’s a more pressing obligation.”

That didn’t really check out to Peter. “Really?” he asked, surprised. “He’s… never acted that way with me.”

Clint chuckled. “Well, that’s because you come here to work on his robots and whatever,” he explained. “You know, stuff that’s interesting to Tony.”

Peter shifted from foot to foot. “I mean, he promised me he’d come to my mathalon, even though he wasn’t really paying attention when I asked…”

Clint grinned. “Mathalon? Like, as in, you’re a mathalete?”

“The point is,” Peter continued pointedly, “he whined about it the whole ride there, but he went with me and May, and even took us to Steak ‘n Shake afterward.”

Clint considered this. “Yeah,” he sighed, “I guess it’s a little different with you,” he admitted. “Alright, so what are you thinking? Kidnapped? Drugged? Killed by Dum-E in his own private robot uprising?”

Peter paled. “I, uh, was just wondering if he was sick or something, but NOW I’m worried… It would be Dum-E… I see the way that robot looks at him.”

Clint laughed. “Well, I don’t think you have to worry about Stark being sick, because he hasn’t been upstairs complaining about it,” he said, “but we can go down and tell him you’re here.” 

Peter stepped through the open door and followed Clint through the common room and to the elevator. 

“So you haven’t heard from Mr. Stark all weekend?” Peter asked. “And you live in the same tower?”

“Well, I’m just staying temporarily, but yeah,” Clint replied. “We’re talking about Stark, here,” he said, as if that explained anything. Maybe it did, to the other Avengers, but for Peter, it didn’t make him feel any better.

They took the rest of the elevator ride in silence, but when Clint pulled at the door of the lab, they wouldn’t open.

“FRIDAY?” Clint called. “We want to check on Tony. Let us in.” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barton, but you don’t have access to the lab,” she said. 

“Oh!” Peter chirped, and as soon as he tugged on the door, it opened right up. Clint still walked in first, taking a look around the lab, eyes scanning the computers, the workbenches, the corners where he kept suit parts and reactor bits and robots. 

“Stark?” he called. There was no response except for a small groan, like someone was being woken up. “I think he fell asleep in the lab,” Clint whispered to Peter. “Let’s wake him up.”

Peter didn’t love the mischievous edge to Clint’s tone, but followed him to the couch anyway, where indeed, Tony was curled up with his face buried in the arm. 

“Rise and shine, tin can,” Clint called, stepping up onto the arm of the couch with one foot. When Tony shifted to look up at him, he cursed. 

“Is he okay?” Peter whispered frantically. 

“Uh,” Clint replied eloquently. Tony was squinting at him and covering one eye, barely opening the second, and covered in sweat. Awake, he’d began shivering, and his face was flushed red. “Tony?”

Tony groaned again, this time punctuating it with a miserable, wet cough. “Wait, how’d you get in here?” he asked, his voice sounding congested and raspy. 

“Hi, Mr. Stark,” Peter spoke up, “I just--”

“Oh, shit,” Tony cursed, sitting up with a grimace, “I meant to set an alarm.” 

“You did, Boss,” FRIDAY interjected, “but I disabled it when your temperature rose above 103.”

Clint’s eyes widened. “Jesus, Stark, why didn’t you come get me?”

Tony shook his head. “I’m fine,” he brushed him off, “just need some water and a few aspirin.” He turned to Peter, forcing a reassuring and easy smile. “You mind grabbing some?”

Peter nodded and rushed back to the elevator to find them. As soon as the elevator dinged and Peter stepped in, Tony’s posture slumped like a puppet with its strings cut. 

“Damn it, Clint,” he cursed, still looking at him through barely-open eyes, “why would you bring the kid down to the lab if I wasn’t answering the door?”

Clint blinked confusedly. “I didn’t know,” he defended, “because you didn’t tell me you were sick, not to mention  _ this _ sick.” In the silence of his pause, he could hear Tony’s breath whistling in his chest. “That sounds like it could be pneumonia,” he accused. He’d self-treated them on missions enough to know when he heard a serious lung infection. 

“Just a chest cold,” Tony brushed him off.

“‘Just’ nothing,” Clint chastised. “FRIDAY says your temperature is 103.”

“That was an hour ago, Mr. Barton,” she corrected. “It’s presently 103.7.”

Clint frowned. “Shit,” he cursed, “that REALLY doesn’t sound like a chest cold, Stark,” he said, his eyebrows furrowing when Tony seemed to prove his point by coughing until he gagged. 

The elevator dinged and Tony looked to Clint with panicked, bright eyes. “Keep him outta here,” he said. “Send the kid home. Tell ‘im I’m fine but he’s got the day off.”

Clint’s heart melted a little bit. So it WAS different with Peter. He suddenly understood why the kid would be so concerned when Tony flaked on him without a word. Because, in any other situation, Tony WOULDN’T flake on him without a word. 

Clint went to meet Peter at the door of the lab, taking the water, aspirin, and a few other things Peter had managed to scavenge from Tony’s meager medicine cabinet supplies. 

“Hey, so I don’t think Tony wants you here for this,” he said. Peter looked hurt. “I dont’ think it’s personal--”

“No, I get it,” Peter cut him off. “That’s how Mr. Stark is. He doesn’t want me to see him all vulnerable and sick. I get it.”

Instantly regretting his own version of the “that’s how Tony is,” speech, he nodded. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, “exactly. I’ll let you know how he’s doing later, but it’s looking like I’m gonna have to take him to SHIELD medical.”

“Good,” Peter breathed. “I think he’s really, really sick. I’ve seen him work through some pretty nasty stuff before, so if he’s out of commission…”

“Right,” Clint said. Peter lingered for another moment, trying to subtly peek around Clint to get another glimpse of Tony, who was lying on the couch unmoving and coughing again, breathless and deep. 

“Don’t worry about him too much,” Clint smiled. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He always bounces back.” 

Peter didn’t look entirely convinced, because what the hell kind of answer was “he’ll be fine; he’s never died before?” 

Nevertheless, he knew that the longer he stood here, the longer it would take Clint to get back to Tony, who was still coughing, and--suddenly, oh, shit, he was grappling off the couch. The thought of leaving forgotten, both Clint and Peter rushed toward Tony just as he collapsed in front of a trash basin, retching into it a few times and still battling for breath.

“Okay, scratch SHIELD medical,” Clint barked, “FRIDAY, get an ambulance?”

“Yes, sir,” she said curtly. 

“Tony?” Clint tried, his hands hovering over Tony’s back, “you good?”

Tony glared at Peter, still unable to breathe enough to form a coherent answer, but pointed. 

“Sorry,” he apologized, “but I’m gonna stick around until the ambulance gets here. Mr. Barton might need help.”

Tony didn’t look pleased, but the fact that he still wasn’t getting any good breaths in was starting to take him under. A cold water bottle was suddenly being pressed to his mouth, and he tried to take a few sips of it as best he could. 

Damn, that was cold, and he really needed it. As soon as a few sips had calmed the coughing a little, Tony started to drink faster and in larger, more desperate gulps until Clint took it away. 

“You’re gonna throw it up if you do that,” he scolded. 

Tony was still gasping, looking much paler than even he had on the couch, and his head drooped forward until his forehead was pressed to Clint’s shoulder and neck. 

“He’s boiling,” Clint hissed. “FRIDAY, how high is his temp?”

“Presently, 104,” she said. “A temperature this high, combined with the probable chest infection, can put a severe strain on the arc reactor,” she added. “I believe it is imperative to begin lowering his temperature with a lukewarm shower even before medical intervention arrives, as it could be another 9 minutes.”

“I’ll get the water running,” Peter announced, but FRIDAY cut him off.

“No need, Mr. Parker,” she reminded, “he just needs to be carried upstairs.”

Gotta love AI.

Together, Peter and Clint wrestled a worryingly limp Tony to the elevator, where they allowed him to sit on the ground. His eyes opened at all the movement, and when they locked onto Peter, he frowned, as if just remembering again that he was there. 

“Thought I told Barton’a give’ya a day off,” he slurred. God, he really was out of it if this was news to him. 

“I’ll go in a bit,” Peter promised. “I just want to help him get your fever down. It’s pretty bad, Mr. Stark.”

Tony gave a displeased huff but didn’t have the energy to argue further. His head lolled once more against Clint’s chest, who pulled him close and heaved him up when the elevator arrived on the main floor. 

Under the stream of the shower, Tony was shivering hard enough that it was becoming really difficult for Clint to force himself to keep Tony under the stream. 

“C-Clint?” Tony asked, his voice strained by the chattering of his teeth, “wha’s goin’ on?”

Clint smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good to see you’re a little more lucid,” he said. 

Tony glanced to Peter and, once again, frowned disappointedly. 

“Go home,” he commanded.

“Oh, come on!” Peter cried. “Every time you wake up!”

Tony looked confused, but Clint just continued patting his shoulder. 

“You’re really sick, buddy,” he explained, “and you probably have been for a while.”

Thinking back on the weekend, Clint should have seen the signs. Tony had been snappish, which he usually wasn’t unless he was interrupted. He’d had a fit on Clint for playing music too loud, and though he’d just assumed it was breaking his concentration, Clint now wondered if he’d been trying to sleep. He’d even thought he’d heard him throwing up in the upstairs bathroom, and Clint had written it off as a hangover. Damn it. Not only had he judged Stark wrong, but he’d ignored the signs of illness because of it. Signs Peter had seen in just seconds. 

“Oh, yeah,” Tony replied, “sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

Tony blinked a few times. “I… dunno,” he admitted. Clint bit the inside of his cheek and thought, not for the first time since he’d known Tony, that Howard Stark was an asshole. 

“Okay,” Clint said gently. “Well, we went down and found you pretty much burning up and delirious. An ambulance is on the way.”

Tony groaned. “Ugh, you called’n ambulance? Tell ‘em to go back. Just need some sleep.”

“Mr. Stark, your temperature is dangerous,” Peter interjected. “You needed sleep, like, last week. Now you need a hospital.”

Tony at least had the good sense to look guilty. “Didn’t mean to freak you out, Pete,” he apologized.

“These things tend to escalate quickly for Mr. Stark,” FRIDAY offered. “Because of the decreased lung capacity due to the arc reactor, a small cold can become very serious quickly.”

Clint frowned. “Why didn’t I know that?” he demanded. “If you knew that, why didn’t you tell someone when you first felt sick?”

Tony looked pointedly away, coughing instead of answering, and not being able to stop. Cool, Tony. Play the pneumonia card. 

When the paramedics arrived, Peter finally went home after Clint promised to text him updates, and Clint followed the ambulance on his motorcycle. It was an hour before they stabilized Tony enough to have visitors, but Clint was ready as soon as he was allowed access to his room.

Tony was lying in the bed looking about as pale as the sheets underneath him.

“Hey,” Clint greeted. “Cool outfit.” 

Tony tugged at the collar of the hospital gown. “Well, I may have been allowed to stay in my street clothes if someone hadn’t soaked them.”

Clint shrugged. “We wouldn’t have had to do that if you’d gotten me when your temperature wasn’t frying that stupid genius brain of yours.”

Tony bit a fingernail. “Yeah,” he admitted, “sorry about that.”

Clint sighed. “Just don’t do it again.”

Tony nodded in a way that suggested he wasn’t making promises, and Clint took the remote from the bedside table. 

“Hey,” Tony objected.

“Relax,” Clint rolled his eyes. “There’s only four channels on this thing, anyway, and you can consider this payment for me having to watch you puke.”

Tony grimaced. “You what?”

“Twice,” Clint said. “You don’t remember?”

Tony shook his head. 

“God, well, you were really out of it, so I shouldn’t be surprised.” Emeril Lagasse was throwing seasonings into a pot on the television and Clint gasped. “Oh my God, I haven’t heard about Emeril in years. Glad to see he’s doing okay.”

Tony bit down on a smile. “Look at the quality of this film, Clint,” he argued, “this is like 10 years old.”

Clint frowned, but didn’t change the channel to anything more recent.

“I… My memory is kind of fuzzy. Was Pete there when… well, was Pete there?”

“You mean did he see you throw up and collapse?” Tony nodded. “Yeah, he did. Freaked him out. That reminds me, I told him I’d text him.”

“I’ll do it,” Tony objected. “Hand me my phone.” 

Clint shrunk down in his seat. “About that…” he trailed off.

Tony sighed. “It was in my pocket when you threw me in the shower, wasn’t it?”

Clint nodded. 

“Awesome,” he said. “Well, give me yours, then. I still wanna text the kid.”

Clint obeyed, watching Tony pick his words too carefully not to read the message when he handed it back. 

[To: Spider Bro 7:54 pm]

Hey, Pete, it’s Tony. I’m good now. Should be released tomorrow afternoon, so I’ll see you Wednesday. Sorry about today. I didn’t mean for things to get bad, especially with you around. We can talk Wednesday, but don’t worry about anything.

Clint smiled, and informed Tony when Peter replied that it was fine, but that he wasn’t going to come back until Friday, because that was the absolute earliest that Tony should be out of bed, and that Karen, FRIDAY, and Clint were conspiring against him to ensure he rested. 

“Et tu, Barton?” Tony asked, a hand to his heart in betrayal. 

“Until you’re not a baby who doesn’t know how to take care of himself, your robots and I are your new parents.” 

Tony rolled his eyes. “You’re an ass.”

“And you’re grounded,” Clint said sternly.

“Where does Peter fit into this new family?”

“He’s your son, obviously,” Clint replied, “though he’s smarter than you are.”

Tony laughed. “Don’t I know it.”

“You really have a soft spot for Spidey, don’t you?” 

“Course I do,” Tony said fondly. “He’s a good kid.” 

Clint nodded. Peter was, indeed, a good kid--good enough to make everything he touched better, clearly. From now on, he’d have to take Peter into account when he made any kind of moral assumptions about Tony, because anything that applied before was outdated.


End file.
